27122019

Made the mistake of rewatching a Makoto Shinkai film tonight – The Garden of Words, in this particular case – and man, was it a mistake… it’s been a while since I’ve last seen a romance film (not that Garden is a traditional romance story in particular, or even a film about romance at all; I just can’t think of a better term in the moment) and I remember now why I stopped watching them. 

There’s just something really painful about how beautiful it all is: Shinkai excels more than basically anyone else I’m aware of at taking the most mundane and unremarkable artefacts of daily life and elevating them into something beyond cinema or even art in general, where the world seems to become positively imbued with this kind of unbearable, untouchable beauty whose most remarkable and lasting effect is the horrible wrenching sensation that washes over you the moment the illusion breaks. It almost feels like taking some kind of incredibly potent opiate: the sense of euphoria is powerful enough to tear you away from reality for just a moment, long enough to feel the slightest glimpse of some other possible life, before rapidly receding, leaving you painfully, acutely aware of how dull and petty your own life seems in comparison. 

Do I hate it? I don’t know – no, I don’t think I do. In fact, I think I love it: being able to not just see but feel that other possibility, even if for just a moment. But man, does it hurt… it tears me to pieces every time. The only way to sustain the feeling is by reaching further and further into this ever-receding warmth, this impossible light, which will not and cannot sustain itself. The deeper you get into all of it the darker the real world seems in comparison. Sooner or later you’ll have to face it anyways.

Man, I feel nauseous…